At the beginning of 2011 I made a commitment to live creatively. I have a pretty simple definition of the creative life. Living creatively means following what is most alive for me at any given moment. I have to pay attention to the energy in my body, to the random thoughts that tug at my soul, to the creative impulses that spark imagination. I have to pay attention.
It is hard because, at times, there are so many people and projects vying for my attention. There are my students, including the one today who was panicked over chapter 1 of her dissertation. There is the folder of papers that need to be graded with facts that need to be checked and corrections that need to be made, like the paper I graded today that bore the claim that Jim Crow was the guy who enforced segregation. There is my partner who enjoys spending time with me at the co-op: me with my tea, him with his coffee, both of us enjoying the pair of folk singing sisters performing on a makeshift stage in the corner of the dining area. There is the meeting tonight of the committee to plan a community forum on bullying; I agreed to chair before I realized that it would be akin to herding cats.
As I look at the list of things I've done and intend to do today I suddenly realize that these things aren't distractions from the creative life. They are the raw materials from which I can create. The creative life isn't always about writing or painting or dancing or singing. It is about making something beautiful from the junk that life sends our way.
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